


In All Things Equal

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Differing Opinions, Gen, Sexism, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre talk of theatre, women, and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In All Things Equal

The La Muette de Portici was the rave of all Paris. It told the story of Fenella, a mute girl who struggles to save the life of her irredeemable love during an uprising against the Spanish rule in Naples. With its complete unity of chorus, orchestra and stage effects, the critics could only call it one thing: grand.

“I am going to Le Peletier with Courfeyrac. Will you come?”

Enjolras did not look up from his current treatise. “I beg you to enjoy yourselves. Theatre is an amusement I cannot afford.”

Combeferre smiled despite the remark. Enjolras had always been severe in his pleasures.

“There is more to staged works than amusement, my friend.” He fixed the sleeves of his shirt. “It is also a site for learning. It may be difficult to grasp what with your halls and courtrooms, but for others who find enlightenment in wards, streets, and even gardens, the four corners of instruction are far wider.” Combeferre perched his spectacles carefully on his nose. “There are values to be gained from it.”

“Any story must have values, that is true,” Enjolras paused to insert the word ‘swift’ before ‘progress’, “but any moral value depicted on stage remains distant. The participants will always be aware that there is an actor, that there is a stage, and that the tree is not a tree. They will know that the man is not truly dead, the woman is not truly weeping, that their son is not at all a drunk. As long as the audience is aware, the play will never do the value justice.”

Combeferre furrowed his brows. “Fair point. But there are emotions and virtues that one would never have experienced were it not for theatre, if only to gain a feel of it and not invoke it entirely. There is courage, honour, freedom, love –”

“Love?”

“Love!”

Enjolras scoffed. “Love is in the realm of women.”

Combeferre paused in the adjusting of his coat. His smile of mild amusement was gone. He looked at Enjolras who hunched unaffected on the writing desk, the pen in his hand undeterred. Combeferre took two slow strides towards him, placed two fingers on top of the paper he had been writing on, and slid it away. Suddenly, it was no longer about theatre.

“Why do you say that?” he said. “Do you so easily dismiss an argument by the mere mention of women? Are they so irrelevant to you?”

Enjolras could no longer pretend resuming his work. “Do not mistake my words, Combeferre.” He looked up to his roommate who seemed abruptly upset. “I do not deem them useless. In fact, I acknowledge that they greatly influence public morals and that they have power over society’s virtues.”

“But their power corrupts. They devoid men of their patriotic passion and direct it to themselves. I will say it again: Love is the realm of women; Politics is for men. In this regard, Rome and Greece are to be aspired to by virtue of the women they esteem highly. Theirs were modest and seldom spoken of.”

How was one to react to such a statement? Combeferre felt that he ought to be shocked, dismayed, and even outraged, but in his heart, he could only feel pity. Enjolras sat there innocently. With a languid motion, Combeferre placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You are too harsh, Enjolras.” he said resignedly. “You say that Politics is the realm of men alone. Perhaps that is their fault as well. Women are not taught; perhaps that is why they cannot think. They do not reflect, do not interest themselves in public affairs; perhaps it is because we have prevented them from doing so. We fight for égalité, my friend. There must be égalité in all things. In opportunity, in Politics, and in Love.”

“Your ancients are as guilty of Love as any. Virgil, Plutarch, Severus — they would all have been led to the scaffold for their Love, and theirs was not confined to women.”

Enjolras shifted in his seat. He could not say much, what with the weight of Combeferre’s words and his hand bearing down on him. He suddenly wished that the opera started earlier.

“Perhaps one day, you will understand.”

But he was not one to completely close his ears. He steeled himself and returned Combeferre’s hopeful glance. He nodded gravely. He would consider.

With a final squeeze in the shoulder, Combeferre removed himself from the room. Enjolras was not in the habit of broadening his narrow dogma in the course of a night. He plunged through the streets of the Latin Quarter and made his way to the opera house. One day, he will understand for sure. One day. For now, there was La Muette.


End file.
